


A Better Touch

by templeg



Category: Glee
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-08
Updated: 2012-03-08
Packaged: 2017-11-01 16:04:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/358696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/templeg/pseuds/templeg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My take on Brittany's first time, based on her line in S3E5. Plenty of Brittana angst, with a side helping of fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Better Touch

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: I’m British and therefore a) I have only a fairly hazy idea of what goes on at cheer camp and why there are boys there and b) although I have tried to keep the voice authentically American (e.g. ‘zipper’ for ‘zip’, ‘mom’ for ‘mum’), I may still make mistakes. Fair warning. Also: I am deliberately making the consensual/non-consensual as grey-area as possible, because I haven’t really made my mind up one way or the other on what the canon line implied.

Brittany aches all over.

 

It started before they even began working on the routine for the day. Usually Santana does her pony for her, stroking back each wisp of blonde hair from her forehead with soft fingers, smoothing them over her scalp and pulling her hair through the elastic with such care that it’s almost like a head massage. Brittany loves head massages, and sometimes she thinks that it’s Santana doing this that means she can cheer all day. But this morning was the sixth, which means that Santana disappeared in the direction of the bathroom with Paracetamol and her washbag first thing, and looked so miserable all day that Brittany spent their few breaks stroking Santana’s tummy (she tried to kiss it one time, too, but Santana squawked and smacked her on the ear) and making little noises like she does for Lord Tubbington when he’s sad because her mom won’t let him have a Twinkie. So she did her hair herself, and no matter how many times she re-did it it didn’t sit right, pulling at her roots and yanking whenever she moved until Ashlee stuck her head around the bathroom door and told her she was going to be late and she had to give up. All day, whenever she jumped or kicked or did anything, it tugged, and now her head hurts. Her muscles ache, too. Since Santana’s tummy hurt too bad to be doing her best, Brittany tried even harder so Coach Sylvester wouldn’t notice, and now it really hurts.

            Gingerly, she pulls her hair out of the elastic, letting it fall over her shoulders and sighing at the release. She undresses, puts on her pyjamas and climbs into her sleeping bag. Most nights, Santana sneaks into her tent and they stay up talking until someone forces her to go back to her own tent. But the last she saw of Santana, she was being led off to the nurse. Brittany curls into a ball in her sleeping bag. She tries to stay awake, just in case Santana comes after she sees the nurse, but she is so exhausted her eyes close anyway, and before she can remember why that isn’t meant to be happening she is asleep.

            The next thing she is aware of is the sharp sound of her tent-flap being unzipped. It’s dark, and her vision is still foggy with sleep anyway, but she sees the outline of a figure crawling into the tent beside her. She’s still at least half asleep, but her heart skips anyway.

 

            ‘S’tana?’

 

            She can’t seem to make words come out properly. Everything is still very blurry, but it is dawning on her that the figure doesn’t look like Santana, or even a person, really (but that’s probably because she’s so tired). The laugh that comes after she tries to speak doesn’t sound like Santana, either. She wonders if thinks she should probably be scared, or surprised at least, but she’s just too tired.

 

            ‘Who ‘s it?’

 

            Another laugh, which gets louder when Brittany tries to prop herself up on her elbows but slips. ‘It’s Kyle. You okay there?’

 

            Kyle Matthews likes to stand around and watch them practice their routines; or rather, watch Brittany. Brittany hates it; it always makes her lose her concentration and one time she got distracted and kicked Sarah Gillian in the ass, and now Sarah gives her nasty looks from the other side of the formation even though she said she was sorry more times than she could count, which is sad because she was going to teach Brittany how to do French plaits. Santana threatened to kick him in the nuts once, which made him go away for a while, but he came back and made Brittany slip and twist her ankle. One time he asked her to get a smoothie with him, which she did just in case it would make him let her practice in peace, but if anything he seems to be around even more now. Right now, he’s squatting by her sleeping bag, staring down at her with this weird grin on his face. Brittany supposes he’s cute- all the other girls talk about him, and Santana claims that Sarah only really hates her because he likes her and not Sarah- but although any girl in the camp would die to be in a tent with him in the middle of the night, she really just wants him to go away so she can sleep more. Or for Santana to turn up and kick him in the nuts for real. She tries to sit up again and manages this time. The sleeping bag falls away from her torso, revealing her Powerpuff Girls t-shirt. She realises too late she isn’t wearing a bra under it. Kyle’s eyes flick downwards, and Brittany notices with a dull shock that he can see her nipples through the fabric. She crosses her arms over her chest.

 

            ‘What’s going on?’

 

Kyle smirks, and his eyes flick downwards again. His grin widens. ‘Nice PJs’. Brittany barely has time to be annoyed that he didn’t answer her question- and seriously, it’s the middle of the night, why is he in Brittany’s tent? - when he leans over in a rustle of fabric and kisses her.

Brittany’s kissed plenty of boys before, and mostly she quite likes it, even if it isn’t as amazing as she grew up thinking it would be. Kyle’s a good kisser. His lips are practiced and soft and this is the kind of thing Brittany is good at; she can kiss like this more or less without using her brain. It’s not as good as going back to sleep, but it hurts her head less than trying to talk, so she kisses him back, wrapping an arm around his neck to steady herself. But then Kyle groans and pushes forward and Brittany slips, ass sliding on the slippery material of her sleeping bag, and the next thing she knows she’s on her back with Kyle’s chest pushing down on her and one of his legs in between hers. He fumbles with the zipper of the sleeping bag, gets it open so that there’s nothing between them but clothes. She can feel the bulge in his jeans against her thigh and she’s just about to try and wriggle into a different position when Kyle slides a freezing cold hand up her shirt.

Brittany stifles a gasp and pulls away. It isn’t like a boy has never touched her boobs before, but she was always wearing a bra then, and the actual contact of rough cold skin against her nipple is about the strangest thing she’s ever felt. She can’t decide if she likes it or not.

 

‘Kyle, what’re you doing?’

 

He laughs again, low and conspiratorial. ‘What does it look like, baby?’

 

She doesn’t get a chance to think of an answer before he’s kissing her again. She wriggles back. ‘Wait-’

‘What’s wrong?’

 

Brittany can’t think, she can’t think what to say. She feels like she’s being laughed at and she can’t figure out why. ‘I-’

 

He smiles at her, like she’s about three. ‘It’s OK, baby. Don’t worry.’ Then his lips are on hers again before she can draw breath, his weight draped over her, the hand on her breast now pinching her nipple hard. It hurts, but when his nail catches on it she feels a twinge like an electric shock shoot through her. She gasps, partly to draw breath, partly because it feels so weird. But then the hand is gone, and for the third time she hears the sound of a zipper being unzipped. Kyle’s hand clenches her wrist and draws her hand down to his open fly. She can feel the thin cotton of his boxers in between the sharp metal of the zipper, and beneath that she can feel his erection. Before she can figure out what to think about that her hand is being drawn up, catching on the elastic waistband, and then he pushes it down his pants and she has a brief impression of hair, warm and damp, before her fingers curl around hard muscle and sliding skin and _oh my God_ , she has never done this before. It feels big in her palm, sweaty and completely alien. When she tentatively shifts her grip, Kyle groans and then he’s wriggling out of his jeans and then he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of her pyjama bottoms and wriggles them down over her hips and with a rush of cold air, she is naked from the waist down. _Naked,_ is all she can think. _Naked, naked, naked._ Kyle yanks off his boxers and then his dick is actually touching her thigh and it’s kind of sticky and catches on her skin and she feels dizzy, distant, like this is all happening to someone else. Then Kyle yanks up her shirt and pulls it over her head, half-choking her, and she shivers because it’s cold and very very strange and she doesn’t know how to think ahead. Kyle’s hand is cold on her thigh as he pushes her legs open and then he pushes into her and there is pain, a _lot_ of pain, sticky sharp pain that feels like it’s everywhere. When it fades a little, she really feels that there is something- _someone_ \- inside her, an alien something, and her breath catches and her heart starts pounding in her ears until she thinks she might faint. Kyle groans and thrusts again and it _really_ hurts, and she lets out a whimper that Kyle stifles by kissing her, hard, not practiced and smooth like before but rough and sloppy with his tongue down her throat. One of his hands squeezes her boob in time with his thrusts, which mostly doesn’t feel like anything except for when he brushes her nipple, which sends tiny, kind-of nice jolts to her crotch. Kyle thrusts again and touches some little bit of skin she didn’t know she had, and a tiny burst of warmth shoots briefly through the pain, just for a split second. But then he makes a long, hoarse noise and bites hard at her lip and before she knows what’s going on he’s collapsed onto her chest, smothering her. She lies very still. Everything feels hot and wet and throbbing and she’s afraid to move in case it hurts again. She stays still as Kyle gets dressed, grinning, kisses her quick and hard, whispers something in her ear she can’t make sense of and climbs out of the flap. When he’s gone, Brittany lies staring up at the dark for a long time. She’s so tired she can barely process what just happened, but it’s still almost one before she gets to sleep.

Santana notices instantly that something’s up. She badgers Brittany about it while she does her hair, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the tent, but Brittany can’t bear to let anything spoil the feeling of Santana’s fingers moving over her scalp, tucking her hair behind her ears. She sinks into the feeling of it, letting her eyes flutter shut. She hadn’t realised how tense she was until now- she woke up early, stiff and aching, with dried blood caked on her thighs, and though she snuck into the bathroom before anyone else was up to wash it off, she still feels gross and when she moves it’s like her skin is too tight. She hums happily as Santana strokes her hair.

 

‘Mmmmm, San…’

 

Santana laughs. ‘You’re like a cat.’

 

‘Like Lord T?’

 

Santana and Lord T don’t get on. Brittany think she’s jealous of him. Which is why she sounds so sure when she says ‘You’re _way_ prettier than Lord T. You probably weigh less, too.’

 

Brittany considers. Lord T is _really_ heavy, but Brittany can pick him up, so surely he can’t be heavier than her? Maybe it’s just that she has super-strong arms from the pyramid. ‘San, he’s never gonna like you if you’re so mean about him. I think you and him should have, like, a girl talk.’

When Santana laughs again, it’s a proper Santana laugh, this weird snorting gurgling noise she only ever does when it’s just her and Brittany. The one time she did it in public (when Brittany was doing her Mr T impression) she was instantly mortified, but Brittany loves it. It makes up for the times when they’re with the other Cheerios when Santana doesn’t sound like Santana at all. She tips her head way back, grinning upside-downly at Santana and making her choke and hiccup and kiss Brittany on the tip of her nose. Brittany looks into her dark eyes and wishes they never had to leave the stupid tent. Santana is staring back at her, but she looks worried all of a sudden and when Brittany lays her head on her shoulder and nuzzles at the side of her neck, making purring noises, Santana pulls away.

 

‘Britt, seriously. Tell me what be goin’ on.’

 

She really, really doesn’t want to tell her, which is weird because they always promised they’d tell each other the _second_ one of them had sex (which had worried Brittany until Santana clarified, through undignified honks of laughter, that she didn’t actually mean the _exact second_ it happened). But she knows that if she were going to talk to anyoneabout it it would be Santana, and not telling her feels like lying because they tell each other _everything._ So she takes a deep breath, squirming round so that she’s kneeling in front of Santana, holding her wrists.

She can’t pretend she isn’t just a _little_ relieved when someone sticks their head round the tent flap and tells them they’re late.

Santana shoots her worried looks all day, but they barely get a moment alone in their breaks, and they take that time to scarf down the so-bad-for-you-but-so-freaking-good cold wraps Santana’s mom smuggled into her bag. They eat so fast that when Brittany tries to talk she chokes on a mouthful of ground beef and collapses into a fit of giggles, hiccupping wildly. Santana pretends to be grossed out by the way bit of chewed-up beef fly everywhere, but she’s laughing almost as hard as Brittany and they barely have time to swallow the last mouthfuls and take some deep, calming breaths (discovering in the process that saying ‘ommmmm’ in a super-serious way actually just makes you laugh harder) before they have to head back.

They finally collapse into Brittany’s tent, Santana practically wearing Brittany as a cape with Brittany’s arms wrapped round her neck and her feet dragging, after what feels like years. The first thing Santana does when the flap is closed is pull the elastic out of her hair and shake her head so that her dark hair falls freely over her shoulders. Brittany’s heart gives a happy little skip. Santana never wears her hair down unless it’s just the two of them. It makes her look younger, softer. She flops back in a whirl of hair, pulling Brittany down with her, and for a while they just lay there, still in their uniforms, Brittany’s head on Santana’s chest. She can feel Santana’s heartbeat in her ear, like the sea in a shell, and a stray lock of dark hair tickling her cheek. There’s a stretch of blissful quiet, and Brittany is seconds away from drifting off, fully clothed and head pillowed on Santana’s boobs, when Santana breaks the silence.

 

‘What was it, Britt? I know something went down.’

 

Brittany is glad she doesn’t have to look Santana in the eye. She stares hard at the tent ceiling as she mutters:

 

‘Kyle came into my tent.’

 

Santana tenses underneath her, and when she speaks her voice is cold in that way she gets when she’s pretending not to care about something. ‘And?’

 

‘And…we did it.’ Saying it out loud feels weird, like she hadn’t admitted it to herself before. She hasn’t had much time to really think about it, but now it kind of hits her. She wonders how she should be feeling; she’s guessing it isn’t like this, which is mostly vaguely nauseous. But that might be because Santana still hasn’t said anything. Brittany flips over so she can see Santana’s face. Her eyes are hard, and she’s staring at Brittany like she’s scared she might lose her.

 

‘So what-’ Santana’s voice slips just the tiniest bit, in a way only Brittany would notice. ‘What was it like?’

Brittany feels suddenly ashamed, like she failed Santana somehow. She wants it to be good news so badly. But it’s probably just her. Santana will be much better at it.

 

‘It really hurt. Like, really.’

 

‘He hurt you?’ Santana isn’t even trying to sound calm now. Her eyes flash and Brittany has to stop herself from shying away, even though the anger isn’t directed at her. Santana can be _scary_. She opens her mouth- to say what? - but Santana will have none of it.

 

‘Britt, I swear to God, if he hurt you- _’_

 

She can’t bear to see her like this. Santana’s hands are in fists and she is staring at Brittany with so much anger, so much love, that Brittany does the only thing she can. She draws Santana towards her and kisses her, and Santana shudders, tears rolling between them and into both their mouths. It tastes of salt and lipgloss and comfort, and Brittany strokes Santana’s hair like she’s a baby and whispers, over and over, _it’s OK, I’m OK, we’re OK._ And neither of them says what’s hanging between them, because neither of them can quite admit it’s even possible.

 

_It should have been us. It should have been you._

Santana gulps and wipes her cheeks as they pull away. She gives Brittany a watery smile. ‘What a douche.’

Brittany knows better than to defend Kyle to Santana. Besides, she doesn’t really want to. She giggles. ‘Yeah. His thing was all sticky, too. Like there were snails all over it. _Super-_ gross.’

Santana looks horrified and Brittany thinks she really has grossed her out this time, even though she’s fairly sure nothing she’s said has ever _really_ freaked Santana out. Santana is un-freak-outable, she thinks with pride.

 

‘Britt. Did he use-’ She stops when she sees the blank expression on Brittany’s face and grabs her rucksack, rummaging through it and retrieving a silver sheet of pills. She pops one out of its foil and holds it out to Brittany.

 

‘What does it do?’

 

Santana gives her a look, part sad, and part that anger at the whole world that Brittany wants to kiss out of her eyes forever. ‘Just- take it, Britt. Please?’

Brittany hesitates for a second, but Santana’s eyes are pleading and she knows she wouldn’t ever hurt her. ‘For me?’

She closes her fist around the pill and swallows it with a glug from her water bottle. It feels like a big deal, even though she still doesn’t know what it was for. Something tells her that it would hurt Santana to tell her, because she thinks it would hurt Brittany. She decides she doesn’t want to know. Nothing is worth hurting Santana.

‘He’ll wind up working at Walmart, Britt. And you and I, we’ll rule the world.’

The next kiss feels like a promise. Brittany’s world becomes by Santana and her curtain of dark hair, and when they break apart, when Santana’s lips try to form something she’s begun to be afraid to say, Brittany shushes her, gently, because it doesn’t need to be said out loud.


End file.
